Fukushima is truly a beautiful place. Even when it's ridiculous scenic cherry trees aren't blooming,

it's a southernmost prefecture, a district similar to a state in the U.S., in the Tohoku region,

an area of about 25,000 square miles famous for its remote beauty. Dense forests and volcanic

peaks rise above the fog that often blankets the area's rice patties,

apple orchards, and cattle farms.

While many of us, especially in the West, might think of Tokyo's towering cityscape when we think

of Japan.

It's billboards and neon lights.

It's modern glass and concrete skyscrapers.

It's bullet trains whizzing people from the city center to the suburbs.

Life in Fukushima was and

is considerably quieter. Indeed, for decades, Fukushima's work was not in the high-tech

business-focused realm, but in the practical, the safe, and the steady, supplying produce, dairy

products, and seafood to the rest of Japan. But in the space of a few days in 2011, all of that changed.

On the afternoon of March 11th, and otherwise unremarkable Friday, the ground beneath

Fukushima, indeed the ground beneath much of Han Shu, Japan's biggest island, began to shake.

This on its own, not unusual. Japan experiences thousands of earthquakes each year.

Many of them are too small to even feel, or they're over, before residents truly understand

what's going on.

A few seconds of shaking, maybe some plates rattling in cabinets or pictures against the walls,

and then it's all over.

But this, this was different.

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